It’s been fifteen years since my first spot—
a busy open mic in Hammersmith,
Twenty one and shitting bricks, caught
in the glare of stage lights, already half pissed.
The audience’s general indifference;
my mumbled lines—unheard and barely missed.
How many stages have I been on since?
A few hundred? Perhaps—they tend to blur
into each other, like the countless pints
I sometimes needed to speak out my verse.
The damp squibs outnumbered the thunder strikes.
My old ambitions may become my curse
and yet I’d never choose another life.
Apr 15, 2012 @ 23:45:55
I don’t think you need to justify your work, this series and poems like the 14th. April do that well enough.